


All Are Lunatics

by movies_michelle



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-22
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-08-10 07:48:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7836313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/movies_michelle/pseuds/movies_michelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There was one piece of advice John's grand-mere had given him and he'd always tried to live by: "You can lie to the marks, lie to your lovers, lie to whoever you need to, even lie to me all you want. But never lie to yourself. You can't make the mark dance to your tune unless you know what song you're playing."</p>
<p>So, when he'd decided that the best idea to secure his safety on the crew of <i>The Walrus</i> was to seduce Captain Flint, John wanted to make sure it was for the reason he told himself it was.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Set first half of season 2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Are Lunatics

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to M'Lyn, Dorinda, and Jo for the beta.

John's long-gone grand-mere had much to say about how to live his life. She'd not approved of a lot of the way he'd done things: his tendency to improvise rather than plan; his preference for short, simple cons over long, complicated ones; his desire to make everyone like him, rather than make himself forgettable; his attraction to men who'd never lain with men. There was one piece of advice, though, that she'd given him and he'd always tried to live by: "You can lie to the marks, lie to your lovers, lie to whoever you need to, even lie to me all you want. But never lie to yourself. You can't make the mark dance to your tune unless you know what song you're playing."

She'd not been right about much—she'd also not been French, as far as he knew, nor related to him in any way, though they had been very useful to each other in several cons--but she'd been right about that, and even at John's young age he recognized it. Ever after, he made sure to always know why he'd made a choice, partly to make sure it was the right one. 

So, when he'd decided that the best idea to secure his safety on the crew of _The Walrus_ was to seduce Captain Flint, John wanted to make sure it was for the reason he told himself it was.

To be sure, the first reason was to help strengthen the tenuous connection with the captain, who seemed always on the verge of murder, specifically John's murder. Successfully seducing Flint would not only increase the chances of his not being killed, John reasoned, but also his chance of being there to receive his share—and possibly more than his share—of the _Urca_ gold.

But John couldn't deny how attractive he found the captain, mad and covered in blood as he tended to be. Whether that was overwhelming his reasoning on the rest was what made John pause to reflect on why he was considering this course of action. That and the desire that it not be John's blood Flint was covered in next.

John was thinking of this when he watched the man move across the quarterdeck for possibly the tenth time that day, appreciating how he stalked across it, especially in those trousers.

Enough self-reflection, he decided.

The real problem, John knew, was that you didn't attempt to seduce a man like Flint without first figuring out what kind of man Flint was, or at least what kind of man Flint thought he was, at least when it came to certain proclivities. Normally John trusted his instincts on this, knowing which man was seducible and which would likely end—before or after the seduction—with a knife in John's chest, and avoiding those too dangerous to approach. But Flint was a more complicated man than most, angrier than most, and John thought a bit more research was called for.

John had spent enough time on the sea to know that merchant men were damned near egalitarian when it came to men doing other men, and pirates were even more so. It did vary from ship to ship, and while John could say with some certainty—and rumor was certainly quick to back him up—that Flint had been a Naval man, what feelings he had when it came to the more morality-based rules in Her Majesty's Navy were a bit muddled.

On the one hand, John knew of at least two pairs of official matelots onboard, which didn't even account for the number of men fucking each other out of convenience. This did not automatically mean Flint would be open to fucking him, but it was a good sign he was not of a particularly Puritanical bent so that he would react poorly to the idea in general.

So, time to start with the crew.

"The Captain seems to be in a particularly foul mood lately," he said casually to a couple of riggers as they climbed down after their shift. 

"Ain't hardly a cheery one, is Flint," one of them pointed out, and John joined in with a polite laugh.

"Well, you know what he needs," he said with a wink. 

He allowed them a minute to work through all the leering suggestions they could come up with, most of which seemed highly unlikely ones involving amorous mermaids (he'd noticed Jones, particularly, had an oddly fantastical bent to his thinking), and then continued. "But, really, I've never seen him visit the brothel at Nassau."

"Got a woman inland, don't he," Muldoon said, shrugging.

"Witch," Howard muttered, making a half-hidden hex sign.

"Sure," John said, warming up to his role of gossipmonger. "But what about aboard ship. He ever have someone he uses?"

The others looked between them, seeming slightly confused, while also glancing towards the hatch below, as if fearful that the man himself would appear at any moment. 

"Captain don't mix with the men like that," Muldoon said. 

"Though there was Lord Prettycakes," Howard pointed out, and the others burst into laughter and lewd comments at the name.

So the story came forth with some coaxing from John. It seemed there had been a merchantman _The Walrus_ had come upon, which had readily surrendered, having been well-insured and the men with no taste for fighting. While the crew were busy ferrying their plunder from the ship, there had emerged an obviously rich young fop, who had quickly made no bones about wishing to be plundered as well, preferably by Captain Flint. 

What the man was doing on the merchant ship, no one knew, but the captain of the ship seemed eager to tell Flint how rich he was and the value of such a hostage should they take him for ransom from his _very rich_ family. The others speculated that the boy had been so much trouble to the captain with his men, that he would rather face the wrath (or possibly relief, if they were sending the boy off to the West Indies rather than keeping him at home) of a rich and powerful family than take one more minute of the boy there.

Flint had at first seemed annoyed and uninterested, and in fact the crew confirmed he rarely if ever dealt in ransoms. But he'd eventually seemed to relent, and so Lord Prettycakes was brought aboard.

What followed, according to the men, was a most hilarious campaign of seduction on the part of the boy, which seemed to alternately amuse, irritate, and anger Flint in such a way that it all was better than any entertainment the crew had ever witnessed. Apparently the boy, who had been given free rein of the deck after Flint had extracted a promise from him that he would not interfere with the running of the ship, proceeded to spend most of his time fawning over the Captain, taking whatever excuse he could find to ask questions about the ship and what was being done to her. He also took great delight in standing much closer than most would dare to the feared pirate captain, and even touching him, much to Flint's obvious discomfort and the crew's amusement.

The rest of the trip back to Nassau continued on the same way, and it seemed poor Lord Prettycakes' campaign would come to naught, except the night before they made port, there was such a caterwauling which emerged from the Captain's quarters, and for such a duration, that it became obvious the boy had finally gotten what he'd been after from the man, and quite thoroughly.

The young lord, it seemed, was quite the screamer.

The next day, Gates, who'd apparently been as amused by anyone at the antics, had ushered the boy off the ship to be stowed somewhere until the ransom was paid (which it was most readily, much to the crew's delight and surprise), fat tears rolling down his face as he looked forlornly back towards the ship. Flint had not emerged for some time, but had seemed in an even fouler mood than usual, and then dashed off the ship, presumably to visit his woman inland.

Which just went to prove, the men said, that even if getting thoroughly laid did not improve his temper, nothing would.

This knowledge now his, John thought a bit about what it could mean.

It was definitely a positive sign that the boy had been successful in seducing the captain, even if it led to a broken heart. Since John had no fantasies which led to him settling down with the man and living happily ever after, he thought he was not in danger of that particular pitfall. 

That Flint was in a worse mood afterward could be for a number of reasons, up to and including how clingy the boy may have been after the fact, which seemed likely from what the crew had told him. There was also the great likelihood that Flint was giving in to an urge long repressed, and resented the very person who made him surrender. Not an unusual reaction, but not entirely positive for John's long-term goals.

Then again, he was no Lord Prettycakes. He knew how to seduce a man far more subtly than throwing himself so thoroughly at Captain Flint, even if it wasn't, in John's case, just as likely to elicit a fatal wound as a pleasurable outcome.

John smiled to himself at the thought. "Challenge accepted, Captain," he muttered.

*

Seduction plans were put on hold briefly while Flint was deposed, they were both nearly hanged by the crew, they waged a two-man raid of a Spanish Man o' War, the crew came to their aid, Flint regained his captaincy, John gained a new spot on the crew, and they sailed back towards Nassau with their new prize. 

It had been quite the eventful couple of weeks.

But with the gold going from longed-for theoretical prize to a reality—spread out on the sands of a beach and surrounded by Spaniards—John's desire for it grew ravenous. As did his desire for Flint.

He'd not had much thought to spare for the Great Seduction, what with trying not to be killed, alternately, by Flint and their own crew, but he had come to the following conclusion: straightforward was the only way to go with Flint. The man had no patience for any whiff of manipulation, and seemed to appreciate John most when John was as blunt as he could be.

So, with his grand-mere's voice muttering about him having no patience nor thought to consequences in his head, which he ignored as easily as he ever had when she was actually alive, he made his way into the Man o' War's cabin when he knew Flint was alone, and locked the door behind him.

"What?" Flint said, not even bothering to look up from his book as he sat behind the rather ostentatious desk in his throne-like chair.

"Captain," John said, his brain flipping through all the possible things which might follow that, even as he walked with purpose to stand beside Flint's chair, "you've certainly done well. Reclaimed your captaincy, taken this ship, a solid plan to retrieve the gold." He said all of this, while canting his hip against the desk in a way he knew showed off all his assets to the best advantage, and close enough to Flint that their legs brushed. 

Flint looked up at him finally, a faint hint of amusement coming across with his usual glower, which John was going to take as an encouraging sign. "Do you have a point, Mr. Silver?" he asked.

John smiled—not his broad, bright smile that won over most but which seemed to annoy Flint more than anything, but his smaller, quieter smile which he knew some took for 'genuine'--and said, "My point, Captain, is only that with all of these achievements, I have not seen you celebrate. And I think we both have plenty to celebrate. Together." With that, he leaned over just enough to place a hand on Flint's thigh.

Flint did not react visibly: he did not move away, nor did he spread his legs wider. He just continued to stare at Silver, as if waiting out a particularly puzzling dangerous animal.

John chose to take the "not shoving him away or going for his knife" as a positive sign. He also decided direct and blunt was still the best approach, went to his knees between Flint's legs, and slid his hands slowly up the outside of Flint's thighs.

"What are you doing?" Flint asked low and flat. John had not taken his eyes off of Flint's face, alert for any sign of encouragement or danger, and saw a flicker of something, something he could not quite identify, but since it did not seem to be murderous intent, John decided to push forward.

"I'm going to celebrate with you, Captain," he said, smiling that same, 'genuine' smile, and reached for the fastenings on his trousers.

He wasn't stopped, even as Flint continued to stare at him, book still in one hand as John worked his trousers open and pulled out what was, as John had guessed, a truly magnificent cock. 

Before he could bend down to take it into his mouth, Flint reached down and grabbed John by the throat, not strangling, but tight enough that the threat of breaking his neck was clear. "If you think you could use this against me with the men--" he started, voice rough and tight, anger on the edges waiting for the wrong answer to unleash it. John reversed as well as he could.

"First of all, I don't see how you think this would do anything but improve your image with the men and completely discredit me," he said hastily. The hand around his throat loosened, but stayed in place. "Second, I thought you wanted this."

Something else flickered through his eyes—something like shame and hunger, things John was accustomed to seeing in the eyes of men, but not the depths of this—but it passed quickly. Flint still did not let go of Silver's throat. "What do you want, then?" Flint spat out.

John did not even bother to hide his irritation at this point. He had never met a man so desperately in need of being seduced, so obviously _wanting_ it, and yet so dead-set against it. That included a certain infamously pious cardinal of John's acquaintance who was really quite inventive and flexible, once you got him going.

But it was a question which made every reason John had either thought of or avoided in his planning come immediately to his head.

I want to know what it feels like to hold that much madness and danger close to me. To know what it means to control all of it and bend it to my will.

I want to have just a little of that focus, sharp as the edge of a sword, be centered on me, just once in a non-fatal capacity. 

I want to know if I can make you need me more than I need you.

I want to give you one more reason not to kill me. 

I want to fuck you because I nearly died, but didn't, and I've gotten myself in a better place now than I was before, and I did it because I am a fucking genius when it comes to people and getting what I want, and I want to sing about it, but I'll take a good fuck instead.

I want you to fuck me because you nearly died, but didn't, and you managed to get your captaincy back through being fucking terrifying, but also being nearly as brilliant as I am at manipulating men, and it's hot as fuck.

I _need_ you to see me as an asset and an ally you can manipulate so I am in the best position to get my fucking gold.

I _want_ you to see that I'm your match, if not your better, and we could fucking have everything we want if we ever figured out how to work together. Someday I'll make you fucking see me.

As always, he went for a kind of truth, and as he'd learned worked best with Flint, he went for a blunt one.

"I want to suck your cock," he said plainly, looking Flint in the eye. "I want to suck it until you start fucking into my mouth. I want you to come, then I want to swallow your come. I want to because I like to suck cock, and yours is just as wonderful as I thought it would be." He stopped, stroking the cock in his hand, and still looking into Flint's blank stare. "If that's all right with you, I'd like to get on with it."

Flint stared at him for a few seconds more, long enough for John to wonder if he'd entirely miscalculated. But Flint's eyes softened slightly, and he smirked. His thumb had started to absently caress up and down John's adam's apple, and John felt himself shiver, though not in fear. Flint sat back in his chair. "As usual, all talk," he said before letting go of his neck entirely, the action a hint of a caress as he did so. It might have been a sneer in his voice, but John thought it more of a tease. 

Flint opened his book again as if to begin reading once more. He did so for a few seconds, long enough for John, still kneeling between his legs, to feel awkward and stupid and angry from this position. "Well," Flint finally said, glancing back down, a different light in his eyes, "wasn't there something you were wanting to do?"

Prick, John thought, but bent down to finally, _finally_ take the man into his mouth.

Fuck, if it wasn't what he'd wanted all along, though, the weight of Flint's cock heavy on his tongue and he sucked at it, bobbing his head down as far as he could go without gagging. It'd been a long time since he'd been able to suck any man. He'd shared a few tugs with one or two of the crew, but he knew enough about ship life to know cock sucking was something reserved for whores and fantasy, not something the men would ever exchange, not in a casual encounter. But he loved it, as much as he'd told Flint he did, and gloried in the act itself and the power he could feel going through him each time he made the man he was sucking moan.

And moan Flint did, albeit quietly and wordlessly. The hand previously around John's throat had moved into his hair, and sat there, not grasping or pushing, just resting there, as if fascinated by his hair. It was why he kept it as long as he did, despite the irritation of keeping the curls from appearing as a frightful wig at times: he'd known men and women both who appeared mesmerized by his hair, and more than one who had wound their hands in it while he pleasured them, thinking they were controlling him, which he allowed. 

But Flint did none of those things, though Silver would have expected it of him, even while he knew he would have fought it. Instead, his hand merely followed the bob of John's head, even as he sucked harder and longer at his cock. The flavor of salty sweat and bitter come on his tongue, as he moved faster, thrilling with each gasp and grunt he could pull from Flint as he went.

Does your woman do this for you? John wondered suddenly, a glint of something he would almost be willing to categorize as vicious satisfaction if John actually reflected on it, even as he pulled back so just the head of Flint's cock rested in his mouth, looking up at him with an impish glint in his eye that had seduced many a man, but he knew would likely irritate the shit out of Flint as likely as anything. Flint was staring at him, watching intently, even while John flicked the tip of his tongue in and out of the slit in Flint's prick, and Flint gritted his teeth, as if to keep the words he wanted to say—and John assumed there were plenty—from escaping. 

When he plunged his head down again, going further down the cock than he had previously, he was satisfied not only by Flint's moan, but the sound of that fucking book finally hitting the deck as Flint dropped it, and Flint's second hand joining the first in his hair.

It wasn't long—longer than John expected it to be, suspecting as he did how long it had been since Flint had indulged in this particular act—before Flint said roughly, quietly, "I'm about," and groaned.

When Silver thought about this, thought about all the things he could and would do with Flint, he'd always imagined Flint taking charge without a care to John's comfort. He'd thought Flint, once he got him into the proper frame of mind, would have fucked into John's face and throat, an act which John was not unfamiliar with and would have tolerated, if not enjoyed. It had not occurred to him that there might be this element of...solicitude, of courtesy almost. But he couldn't say he was ungrateful for it.

So rather than stop at the warning, he sucked harder, though he opened his eyes again, pulling back enough to keep as much of Flint's cock in his mouth as he could, hand wrapped around the rest, but so that he could see Flint's face when he fell. It was worth it, too, to see that look, to see him finally throw his head back and close his eyes, one hand releasing from his hair to grip the arm of his chair, as if he had to grab something, even if he would not allow himself to grab John. 

That look of a man so normally in control losing it so thoroughly, if only for a moment, was one that would keep him warm on many long nights in the future, knowing he had done that.

When Flint had finished, his eyes still closed, panting through the aftermath of his orgasm, John pulled back and rested his face in Flint's groin. John's throat was sore, but pleasantly so, and he reached out his tongue to teasingly lick at the base of Flint's still twitching cock, causing the hand in his hair to reflexively clench in warning. John smiled and wondered if he'd be allowed to finish himself off before he was thrown out, and contemplating where he could find to have a private wank on the ship at this time of day, if not.

But John was surprised, the way only Flint could surprise him anymore, as he heard Flint say, in an even more roughened voice than usual, "Come here," and the hand in his hair tugged, not ungently, until John looked up and moved to stand. He was more surprised when he was guided to straddle Flint's lap until he sat upon the captain's knees.

John had no idea what would come next, so he waited, meeting that intense gaze as he normally did, searching even as he was searched and thrilling just a little bit at it, even as he wondered how much Flint was seeing.

Without breaking eye contact, Flint reached the hand not currently rubbing at the back of John's neck in an almost absent way down to the fastening of John's trousers. John was surprised, and allowed a little of it to show, but did not break Flint's gaze, even when he gasped slightly, as Flint grasped his cock firmly and pulled it out into the air.

Flint held him there for a moment, not looking away, and John was thinking frantically how to defend himself if this strange and intense moment should go horribly wrong, though he equally wanted to just shout at Flint to get the fuck on with it as his cock throbbed. 

Flint finally broke eye contact, only to look down at Silver's cock, as if surprised to find such a thing in his hand.

"Not to rush you, Captain," Silver whispered, pushing back into the hand on his neck and trying to find the angle to thrust up into the fist surrounding him. "But if you could--"

Flint finally looked up and squeezed John's cock almost painfully, though even that had John nearly on the edge of coming. Then Flint smiled, that half-crazed, half-amused fucking smile of his, and John was even closer to the edge. "Patience, Mr. Silver," he said again in that sex-roughened voice that John swore to god he would make it his mission in life to cause as much as possible.

After he got his gold.

Then all remaining thoughts of gold or pirates left his head as Flint finally, fucking finally, moved his hand, and John moaned. 

Crew stories aside, John thought, as Flint's gaze stayed on his face watching, that smile lingering, and his hand continued to move, this was a man who obviously knew his way around a cock, and not just his own. John had been to bed with plenty of virgins and any man, however much he might wank himself, always had an awkward time in converting that knowledge to the different angles and desires of another. Flint, though, was obviously skilled and practiced, which both relaxed and thrilled Silver more as he neared his own climax.

Flint pulled him forward, and John's pulse actually raced faster, if that were possible. It already felt as if it was audible from outside of his body, even over the harder pants and little whimpers he allowed himself, once he saw how it sparked something in Flint's eyes. He thought for a moment, just a moment, that Flint was going to pull him into a kiss, and for that moment, John wanted it. He wanted that mouth, to devour it and be devoured, to lick inside it and know what it was like, if only once.

Instead, though, Flint brought his mouth down on Silver's collarbone through the opening of his shirt, and bit down.

And John came with an involuntary shout, all over his captain's shirt.

Served the fucker right, John thought distantly through his orgasm, moaning still as Flint continued to gently lick and bite along his collar.

Once John had moaned out his last, the last few shudders wracking his body, and Flint's hand no longer so pleasant on his sensitive prick, Flint raised his mouth from John's now-bruised neck and looked in his face again.

This, John knew, was the most dangerous part: this moment as the desire and passion receded, the mark's head cleared and shame and reason set in. This was when the violence was most likely to happen. Normally, John would make himself seem as non-threatening as possible, making sure to remind the erstwhile lover that there was nothing to fear or be angry with here.

But this was Flint, and all his knowledge and instinct about the man kicked in, and instead he met that flat, searching gaze with the cocky smile that belonged to John Silver, and he flexed the hand he had not realized he'd even put into Flint's hair, knocking the tightly pulled back queue into complete disarray. 

Something in Flint's gaze shifted and John tried his best to decipher all that he could see—surprise, bewilderment, a strange flicker of something like sadness, though no shame—and the corner of his eye twitched before he released John entirely, his hands dropping to his sides, and he said coldly, "I believe you have duties to attend to, Mr. Silver."

John let his irritation at being so casually dismissed show on his face, but recognizing that sometimes retreat was the path to victory—and knowing how much he'd won already—he slowly slid back off of Flint's lap and stood in front of him.

"Of course, Captain," he said, as casually as he could manage, though he did not immediately do up his trousers. Instead, he turned to the pail of fresh water kept in the corner of the captain's cabin and began to clean himself as best as he could. He deliberately stood so that he did not block Flint's line of sight to his groin and the movement of his hands, and while John did not look up to verify this, he was almost positive he could feel the captain's eyes on him the whole time.

When his bathing was complete and he had done up his trousers as slowly as possible, as to give his audience of one the best show, he looked over to see Flint fully put back together, looking at his book again, and as ill-tempered as if John had not been sucking his cock so thoroughly not ten minutes before.

He stood and stared until he saw that twitch again at the corner of Flint's eye, then allowed himself to smile at the victory.

"Was there something else you needed, Mr. Silver?" Flint asked, not looking up from his charts.

"Not at all, Captain," John said breezily, and walked to the door of the cabin, unlocking it and opening it before pausing to turn and look back. "Although," he said, as if the thought had just occurred to him, "you will let me know if there are any other...duties you wish me to see to. Won't you?"

Flint did look up at that, and John met that nearly-deadly gaze straight on and thought, almost viciously, Next time I'm going to make you kiss me. Then he turned and closed the door behind him.

And as he walked back to the crew, he could hear an old woman cackling away in his head at him. His grand-mere could fuck right off, too.

**Author's Note:**

> "All are lunatics, but he who can analyze his delusions is called a philosopher." - Ambrose Bierce


End file.
